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Author 



Title 



Imprint. 



16—47372-2 GPO 




Called 



Good-by, old Scout, 

And once again, good-by. 

The Umpire called you out — 
I wonder why. 

— George Wilmot Harris. 



"BY HEK" 



IN THE WAf.E OF 
THE NEWS 



A Collection of the Writings 

of the Late 
HUGH EDMUND KEOUGH 



Compiled and Edited by 

HUGH S. FULLERTON 

Illustrated by 

C. A. BRIGGS 



CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 






^^ 



COPYRIGHT 

BERTHA ATHERTON KEOUGH 

1912 



CCI.A328898 



Untrobuctfon 

HuGb B. Ikeouob was unique amono writers in tbat 
be wrote classics in tbe language tbat men unDerstanO. 
fv99 ftnew better tban be bow to use tbe purest ot Bng- 
lisb; set sometimes tbe Bnglisb ot tbe class room 
proveb inabeguate to bis enbs anb be coulb acbieve 
greater clarity anb force b^ abopting tbe language mabc 
bs tbe people among wbom be liveb. Ibis pbilosopbg 
be learneb in tbe scbool ot sport, wbere buman nature 
is vivisecteb by men traineb in stub^jing eacb otber for 
profit. Broab, liberal anb torgiving towarb buman trail* 
ties; unberstanbing anb giving quicft sijmpatbi?, be was 
tolerant towarb everptbing save sbam anb b^pocrisp. 
"Clpon bi?pocrites be turneb bis ftcen "cbix>" ot satire, 
nor bib be ever miss anyone at wbom be aimeb. Be cbose 
worbs to convey meaning, regarbless ot text boohs, anb 
to tew men it bas been given to express so mucb in so 
tew worbs. IRis vocabulary rangeb trom tbieves' slang 
to tbe race trach tout's patois anb, witb bis heen, wbimsi- 
cal bumor, be brougbt tbe ligbtning fiasb ot meaning trom 
tbe worbs. 

Ubere bas been sucb a bemanb tor bis writings tbat 
tbts volume was prepareb. In searcbing tbe tiles 1 bave 
tounb tbat mucb ot bis best anb brigbtest worit was 
epbemeral; written apropos ot some news ot tbe bay anb 
meaningless now. H bave attempteb to collect tbatwbicb 
will live, anb to emboby as mucb ot tbe teal ''Ibeft" as 
possible in tbe briet space. Ibis worft was so varieb anb 
covers so wibe a range ot bialect tbat it is bitficult even 
to give examples ot all. 

ft was given me to ftnow Heft well, many times f 
cbibeb blm tor not writing sometbing tor posterity; 
sometbing ''wortb wbiie." De coulb bave bone some- 
tbing tbat perbaps woulb bave brougbt more lasting 
tame, but be preterreb to write tor bis own people — 
tbe *'goob tellows" be loveb so well. Hnb, perbaps, 
jubging trom tbe beptb anb sincerity ot tbe griet tbey 
sboweb at bis beatb, be was rigbt. 

Hugb S. jfullerton. 
Cbicago, December, 1912. 



"A Good Old Pal's Gone Out" 




Seven 




When the race is run truly the best is always first in the finish. 



The Lay of the Hospital Race 



The ambulance stood near the paddock gate, 

The stretcher was close at hand, 
And murmurs and squeals of hysterical dames 

Came down from the crowded stand. 

And Dr. Squibbs said to Dr. Squabbs : 
"There'll be practice enough for two — 

I'll take the legs and the busted skulls, 
The collar-bones go for you." 

The gamesters down in the slaughtering-pen 

Looked leery or woebegone, 
And some of the pencillers turned their slates. 

For the hospital race was on. 

The program called it a steeplechase — 

That is the conventional name — 
But we can call it whatever we please — 

The odor is just the same. 

This one was rehearsed the night before. 

In a small back room somewhere, 
And 'twas settled that Smiley should wait on Blink 

And that Peeler go out for the air. 

'Twas also agreed that The Bat go wide 

Of the flags on the far-off bend ; 
That Bourbon should balk at the water jump, 

And that Guzzle turn end for end. 



There was one who wasn't extended a bid 
When the caucus was held that night — 

An unfortunate fellow called Famishing Flynn, 
The owner of Mike the Bite. 






Ei-sht 



ly game is crooked if you go into it in a crooked frame of mind. 




Now, Mike the Bite was a maiden coy, 
Though he'd raced three years on the flat ; 

'I'll put him to jumping-," said Flynn one day; 
"Perhaps he'll be good at that. 

'He's jumped the barrier once or twice — 

Just look it up in the guide — 
And as for jumping a feedman's bill — 

Why, he takes that in his stride !" 

Mike was the champion no-account 

In everyone's eyes but Flynn's, 
But he was "consistent," and that in a horse 

Atones for a heap of sins. 




Flynn coddled him through all manner of ills 

Of liver and lungs and limb; 
When equine diseases were flying about, 

Mike got what was coming to him. 

Quarter-cracks, spavins and splints and botts 

And several more he'd had ; 
Then he caught lung fever, which left his pipes 

Some more than a bit to the bad. 

He was nerved behind, he was fired in front 
From his pastern-joints to his knees ; 

No wonder the "talent" regarded him 
As a putrified piece of cheese. 




A scullion called Mose was given the mount 
On the horse with the gangrened legs. 

Mose wasn't a lot at the horseback act, 
But an artist at frying eggs. 



Nine 



A good start may not make a good ending but it makes it easie 





It took four fingers of kill-me-quick 

To put him on proper edge ; 
With that in his hold, a five-bar gate 

Was the same as a two-foot hedge. 

While the horses walked in the paddock yard. 

Awaiting the saddling call, 
Flynn hooked his flipper in Mose's arm 

And led him within the stall. 



*Mose, there is something doing here," 

He said in his softest tones ; 
'The thing is framed up for Blink to win — 

I'm feeling it in my bones. 

'Opening up at eight to one, 

They have backed her clean out of sight, 
And everything looks like a corpse to her 

But Slasher and Mike the Bite. 

'I saw them setting it in in chunks — 

She's backed to a fare-you-well. 
And there wasn't a cent in the ring for her 

Last Saturday when she fell ! 

'And never a word did they say to me — 

Oh, no ! to the dump with Flynn ! 
For they didn't figure Old Mike a chance — 
They didn't have him to skin. 

'Mike the Bite was a joke to them, 

And Slasher was only a lob. 
Oh, I'd give three fingers from my right hand 

If we could upset the job ! 





Ten 



Form is the brief interval between getting ready and going stale. 





"Now, listen, Mose : We can do it, too — 
The question is up to you. 
You can run it out on that crooked bunch, 
If you do what I tell you to do. 

"As a jumping jock you are rotten, Mose — 
In putting you up I'm a jay ; 
For you couldn't ride in a Burton car, 
Strapped down to a bale of hay. 

"The horse is good. For once I think 
I've got him in perfect trim ; 
He will run every inch if his nigh foreleg 
Doesn't get too hot for him. 

"Moreover, Mose, I have slipped him a charge 
That would blow up a national bank, 
And when it gets working for all it's worth 
You may find him a trifle rank. 

"Just take a good tight hold of his head, 
And keep him within the flags, 
And draw your skillet and bust his slats 
If you find that he loafs or lags. 

'When the pill goes ofif, which I think it will 
'Bout the second turn of the course, 

You take a good hold with your hands and teeth, 
For then he'll be Hawkin's horse. 

'He's as good as one hundred to one to win. 

(A funny guy making a book 
Says that means twenty to one the horse 
And eighty to one the cook.) 




Eleven 



The race is not always to the swift, but that is where to look. 




'I've made an agent from up the pike 

Dig down in his moldy hoard 
And bet six hundred straight, place and show — 

Two hundred across the board. 

'There goes the bugle ! Remember, Mose ! 

The ticket is in your boot. 
You keep him standing and keep him straight — 

I'll g-et on the fence and root." 




The cavalcade filed through the paddock gate 

And steered for the lower turn, 
With a ragged collection of silks aloft 

And the odor of drugs astern. 

Never, I ween, was a tougher lot. 
Surmounted by coons and Turks, 

Stopped on the straight and narrow path 
That leads to the glucose works. 

A ribald shout or a mocking cheer 

Saluted each equine vag 
And each boy thereon as the bunch went by 

On the way to the man with the flag. 




"Line up now, line up now !" the starter cried, 

"Or I'll put you all on the ground! 
Jones, what are you doing with Peeler, there? 
Why don't you turn him around? 

"Now, look at that Guinea on Thompson's mare, 
And that lobster aboard of The Rat! 

Say, Hogan, get straight with that goat of yours, 
Or it's you and me to the mat! 




Twelve 



Rubes can Imagine more crooked things than crooks can invent. 



"Couldn't help it, eh ? Oh, you come off — 

Don't give me that old bull con ! 
Now, steady, there, steady ! Whoa up, whoa up ! 

Come on there, come on ! Go on!" 





'Way back in the dope of a day long dead, 

Which haply you have forgot, 
You'll find the tale of this steeplechase 

In figures and notes — and rot. 

The record shows that a horse "ran out," 
And that others "refused" or "fell." 

The dope nails down all the callous facts, 
But it doesn't record the smell. 

It doesn't show when the pill went oft" 

In the carcass of Mike the Bite, 
And it doesn't bring Chef Mose out strong 

In the glare of heroic light. 

It doesn't record the shudders and thrills 
That swept through the frenzied mob, 

Nor gives it a hint of the deep chagrin 
Of the fellows who framed the job. 

However, it shows that Old Mike came down 

Like the White Ghost on a tear. 
And caught Blink tired at the water jump 

And passed her out in the air. 

It says in a note that the cook shook loose, 

But hung till the line was passed, 
And leaves me to tell you that Famishing Flynn 

Was square with the world at last. 




Thirteen 



It's fine to have been great but don't try to get anything on it 

There Was Ice in the Words 
He Spoke 

Oh, sing me the song of the bowl and stem, 

The song of the might-have-been ; 
The song of the day when your kick was full ; 

The song of the now-and-then. 
Oh, tell me the tale of the time you had 

When money was cheap as dirt, 
And you opened wine in basket lots 

At six and a half per squirt. 
Oh, spin me the yarn of the used-to-be ; 

Oh, serve me the good old con, 
And ease me a spread of the wily salve — 

I'm listening, pal — go on ! 

Once on a time down at Brighton Beach — 

Or was it at old Jerome? — 
You heeled a horse at one hundred to one, 

And saw that horse come home. 
And you scattered coin from the sixteenth pole 

Clear down to the lower turn. 
And what you had left was too big to tote 

And too solidly packed to burn. 
Oh, tip me a stave of the good old time 

That for summers you've lived upon ; 
Then touch me up for a five or so — 

I'm listening, pal — go on! 

Remember the time you broke the bank 

Down at the Branch one night ? 
You stacked so high that the ceiling bulged. 

And the dealer was out of sight. 
Let's hear again of the men you staked — 

Of the horses you gave away ; 
My eyes stick out and my ears expand 

At every word you say. 
Just slip me a slice of the dear old dream — 

Of the dear dead past and gone ; 
Then set me down for a single ace — 

I'm listening, pal — go on ! 



Fourteen 



We must always look out for over-capitalization of past glories. 



Oh, warble to me it will come again ; 

You must get another start; 
And you'll think of the fellows who helped you spend, 

Then gave you the marble heart. 
You'll soon get back to your former gait, 

For the turning point is near. 
And the time at hand when your luck must break, 

After many a weary year. 
And tell me then, of all you've known, 

I shall be the only one. 
Let me blow you off to another stein — 

I'm listening pal — go on. 






Look Around 

Don't fret about the evils that are underneath your nose ; 

They may be fairly shrieking for abatement. 
You may arise and smite them, but the glory never shows, 

For the matter is dismissed with simple statement. 
You may make a hit with someone in your neighborhood, 

but then, 
That doesn't get you mentioned as the "fearlessest of men." 

If you want to cut some figure in the nations, far and wide. 
Don't mind about the noisome things around you ; 

Swing on some threatened outrage that is neither cheap nor 
snide, 
And the way your name will thunder will astound you. 

Make your field the entire union if you want to raise a storm. 

For a piker is a piker even in the game "Reform." 



Fifteen 



1 



Tainted coin looks like any other to the fellow that needs a meal. 



The Hasbeen 



What though it was but yesterday 
That you were in your prime ; 

The clock has struck — that ends the play. 
How long or short the time 

It matters not. When you are done 

A score of years are but as one. 

What though we prided in your skill, 

Exalted in your strength, 
And gloried in your master will — 

AH three have run their length. 
The cheer for you dies on the lip 
What time we mark the slackened grip. 

What though you do not sense the change 
That strikes you from the list, 

Nor feel the atmosphere grow strange, 
Nor note the gath'ring mist. 

Your secret gets to every ear — 

The secret you're the last to hear. 

What though you say you are not past. 

And bravely try again 
To prove your last was not your last, 

But still are here — what then ? 
Your ears don't hear your sentence read : 
"Poor fool ! He doesn't know he's dead." 



Sixteen 



Charity begins at home and only too often does not go visiting. 



What though you live an hundred years 

Ere nature claims its own, 
And godlike form that won our cheers 

Is wasted skin and bone. 
You'll hear that cheer that died away 
That everlasting yesterday ! 

Oh, mocking memory of youth, 

How is it that you hold 
From him who's gone the honest truth, 

Nor wait until he's told — 
Until, still in his full-blown pride, 
He heartlessly is thrust aside? 






To a Flirt 

Here's to her love, though it lived but an hour ; 
Here's to the glow in the heart of a flow'r. 
And would it be fair, do you think — and pray why — 
To crush a poor flower because it must die ? 

Then drink to her love for as long as it lives, 
And drink to the joy and the pain that it gives ; 
For we may as well own it and swallow our pride — 
We'd be damned glad to win her, and most of us tried. 



Seventeen 



Forbearance often is nothing more than respect for an opponenL 



The Mysterious Sitter 



He was never known to borrow, he was never known to beg ; 

He was never known to work at any trade ; 
He never was suspected as a bandit or a yegg, 

And there's no line on a dollar he has made. 

He was never known to gather, he was never known to spend— 

He was never known to do a thing but sit 
Around and listen till the talk was at an end, 

And then unostentatiously to flit. 

He can't tell a funny story, he can't laugh at the same ; 

His vocal powers are limited to shrugs. 
Absolutely nothing he contributes to the game, 

But he's pally with the choicest lot of mugs. 

You can wager that he toils not, that neither does he spin ; 

He sows not, yet he seems always to reap ; 
You have no means of knowing when he's in or when he's out, 

And the atmosphere about him's never cheap. 

You ask me how he does it? For that I'll stand a frisk; 

You can search me to the pelt ; I'll have to pass. 
He simply seems to do it without taking any risk. 

And covers up his footprints in the grass. 



Amounting to something means being taken at at least five per- 
cent of your own appraisement. 



Eighteen 



About all you are able to borrow on sentiment is more sentiment. 



It Has Come to This 



There was no high finance about the game of spoiling mugs, 
When the dear old tub from Boston was the king ; 

When he paid our honest tribute to the other tanks and jugs, 
And the soiree with the raw 'uns was the thing. 

Fighting bade adieu to its traditions long ago, 

And kissed its grimy hand to sentiment, 
When they took" it to the steam heat from the hail and rain and 
snow. 

And a champion aspired to be a gent. 

When the hard glove was a horseshoe and the soft glove was a 
brick. 

The work was somewhat coarse, we must admit ; 
But you had the satisfaction that the best man did the trick, 

And you saw the fairest fight was ever fit. 

When they used to stall the sheriff and pull oft* the bloody mill. 

And you clambered to a tree-top for a seat ; 
When one man got his licking and the other got his fill, 

You knew that the defeat was a defeat. 

The manly art of scrapping is debrutalized to death. 
And you smell it when you take your cushioned seat ; 

For the air is permeated with the frame-up's tainted breath, 
And the question simply is: "Who's going to cheat?" 



The reason a mosquito won't bite a bullfrog is because a man 
won't eat turnip rinds when he can buy a beefsteak without crimp- 
ing himself. 



Nineteen 



Few win greatness without first learning the lesson of defeat. 



A Tribute 

(To George Siler on his retirement as a referee.) 

You heard of him when he was but a kid — 

When he used to hold his own with bigger men. 
In ancient files you'll find the things he did, 

And few could hold a candle to him then. 
As clever as they made 'em with the mitts, 

As game as any pebble on the beach ; 
And nimble on his legs and with his wits, 

With a faculty for keeping out of reach. 

Here's to you, old George Siler, and we're loath to call you old ; 
You'd never have to quit it if you waited to be told ; 
In the face of all temptation the world has found you white ; 
Your courage ne'er was questioned — your heart was ever right. 

He looked the world and duty in the face ; 

Full well we know how well he played his part; 
Through merit he achieved and held his place 

In the hearts of all who love the manly art. 
And manly art it is when such as he 

Devote to it a life of earnest toil. 
As boxer, trainer, writer, referee, 

Thinking always of the honor — not the spoil. 

Here's to you, Mister Siler, you're the daddy of them all. 
And if you didn't quit it you would always have the call. 
Here's to you, Honest Siler, and please do not forget 
That your host of true admirers can't afiford to lose you yet. 

The dead hero holds it stronger than ever over the quick coward. 



Twenty 



The losses we take philosophically are those the other guy pays. 



De Kyard in De Hole 

When de deal's five kyards wif one tuhned down, 

An' you peeks at de kyards in sight, 
Wif a king at de top wif his ^vhiskahs cuhled, 

An' er queen in gahments bright ; 
An' er ten foh de nex', an' er nine, maybe — 

An' all o' dem black in de face — 
But you don't get a sou we'n de game am troo 

'Less you swings wif de buried ace. 

Oh, it ain't de king wif his face tuhned up 

To de light o' de kerosene, 
An' it ain't de jack wif his swo'd in han', 

An' it ain't de lubly queen — 
An' it ain't de ten wif his spots dis way. 

Nor de nine, dat grabs de pole 
An' cops de glue w'en de deal am troo — 

But de kyard dat's in de hole. 

It ain't what you sees dat you got ter beat, 

But de t'ing dat's out o' sight. 
De dog dat bahks w'en de chickings screech 

Am seldom known ter bite. 
De man dat smiles in er helpless way, 

An' leads you to believe 
Dat you has him beat from de head to de feet 

Has de whole wuks up his sleeve. 

n ^ H 

If you cannot conjure up anything particular or striking to be 
thankful for, be thankful that you do not feel yourself under any 
obligations. 



Twenty-one 



Many a man sidestepping an icycle has walked into a coal hole^ 



Asking Why the Ask 

When just the merest accident a reputation makes ; 

When just the merest accident a reputation breaks ; 

When destinies are often shaped upon a drunken guess, 

As someone happens to say "no," when what he means is "yes" ; 

When back to a bHnd chance you trace the most successful guy — 

Then why ask whatinel is who, and whatinel is why ? 

Dame Fortune is a cock-eyed wench who shoots not where she aims ; 
What is called worth is worthless, and mere luck decides the games. 
It is not what you do yourself, but what they do to you, 
Or fail to do, that aids you in the trick of getting through. 
When top or bottom is declared by simple cast of die — 
Then why ask whatinel is who, and whatinel is why ? 



9^ t ^ 



An Appreciation of the Quitter 

Sometimes they feel they can come back when they are down and 

out, 
And crave a chance of making good in just another bout; 
Sometimes the spirit still is young when all the rest is old; 
Sometimes ambition riot runs in blood that's thin and cold. 

And then, upon the other hand, while still the flesh is young. 
The brawn and muscle in their prime, the spirit has been stung ; 
Sometimes we see them backing up while still they should advance ; 
Sometimes they give themselves the count, nor ask another chance. 

Far pleasanter to contemplate the quitter who knows when 
Than him who, by false pride possessed, still yearns to fight again; 
The man who tosses up the game while still he might contend 
Looks fairer than the wieht who sticks unto the bitter end. 



Twenty-two 



To die game is one of the unch2u:ted privileges of the hired man. 



EB 



Jim Horan 




(Fire Marshal of Chicago, killed under falling walls, 
December, 1910.) 



The jest dies on the pencil point, 

The quip remains unsaid ; 
The lighter thought is crowded back 

In presence of the dead. 
How empty and how mocking is 

The duty here imposed, 
When eyes that always smiled response 

To what they read are closed ! 

A man whose friendship was a world, 

Whose sympathy was balm ; 
A man whose timely word could turn 

A tempest into calm. 
He met his duty fair and square. 

And his the final goal, 
The fireman's harness on his back — 

Jim Horan — rest his soul ! 



Twenty-three 



Rev. Johnny Dore; Obit 

A worldly man with godly heart, 
A human being through and through ; 
He played the gentler, nobler part 
In manner that seemed good to you. 



Opportunity always makes sure of the number before it knocks. 



The Limitations of Clarence 



He can golf a bit 

And bowl a bit. 
At billiards he can roll a bit. 

He can pitch a bit 

And switch a bit. 
He's Joseph to the whole of it. 

At any game 

It's just the same — 
He knows it all and more of it. 

There's not a bout, 

From skittles out, 
He does not know the score of it. 

He knows the plugs, 

He knows the pugs, 
The warren and the duck retreat ; 

The place to snare 

The wily hare, 
The bluewing and the parokeet. 

He's gone the route; 

He's been about 
From Bering to the Panama. 

He knows the birds 

That fly in herds 
From Hudson to Guatanama. 

A sportsman bold 

He is, I'm told. 
He's there — and here's our hand for it. 

He'd be the works 

At all the jirks — 
But Papa will not stand for it. 



The spirit of the times shall teach me speed ; 
But the wages of speed should teach me caution. 



Twenty-four 



Right and wrong too often is figured in dollars and cents. 



Yougotagivitoem 



Don't knock the police — they are doing their best ; 
They'll put things to rights if you give them a rest. 
They've got all the knowledge to do it withal ; 
They know all the crooks who are there with the gall 
To kick up a bloke on the steps of his home. 
After making a coupling-pin bounce off his dome — 
Buthelofitistheyaintketchenem. 

They know all the dips and the boxmen and guns ; 
They know every fence and the game that he runs ; 
The fob-hustling gang and the car-frisking crew, 
The snatchers of leather and cut-shifters, too; 
They know every flash any time, any place ; 
Their ear-marks are plain as the nose on your face — 
Buthelofitistheyaintketchenem. 

Just leave it to them ; they've the dope on the "mob." 
They can tell when they're framing for pulling a job. 
The workers of transoms, the prowlers of flats, 
The climbers of porches, the Gophers, the Rats, 
The fine-working con man, the coarse-working thugs- 
They've got all their measurements, also their mugs. 
Buthelofitistheyaintketchenem. 



The closer the natural gaited human being gets to the persons 
who make a business of telling him he is wrong, the tighter he snug- 
gles up to the idea he is right. 



Tiventy-Uve 



Reverses usually arrive when we are least prepared for them. 



n 



Does this Register? 



You rooters who throw joyful fits 
When your pet team comes into its, 
Who heroes hail with gladsome mitts — 
Jiggs Donohue's all in. 

You who, when Greatness stands revealed 
In some big athlete still afield. 
Will for bouquets your substance yield — 
Jiggs Donohue's all in. 

You who proclaim your "loyalty," 
Your "sentiment" and "sympathy," 
What answer have you when you see 
Jiggs Donohue's all in? 

Not many years since Donohue, 
First basing for the White Sox crew, 
Sent thrills into the hearts of you — 
Jiggs Donohue's all in. 

"Poor old Jiggs !" — that's not enough 
For this once grand old piece of stuff. 
That passing sigh's a hollow bluff. 
Jiggs Donohue's all in. 

You who put up for motor cars 
And flowers for the present stars — 
Let's see how hard on you this jars — 
Jiggs Donohue's all in. 



Tiventy-six 



A simple liar is he who says he can bet one way and root another. 



Cacklin' for the Bonspeil 

Gin it disna thaw, Jock ; gin it disna thaw ; 

Gin the ice will bide wi' us an' bonnie blizzards blaw. 

We'll hae a bonspeil o' oor ain, a bonspeil here at hame, 

Wi' dochty chiels wha weel can play at Scotia's roarin' game. 

Gin the ice be keen, Jock ; gin the ice be keen ; 
Upon a finer nicht, Jock, ye never clapt yeer een, 
As when we entertain, Jock, the lads frae far awa 
Aboot the supper board, Jock, till hoors ayont the twa. 

We'll hae the scones an' ale, Jock, the haggis reekin' hot. 
An' wi' auld folks frae hame, Jock, we'll meet tae crack a pot ; 
That feed will croon the day, Jock, the day wi' micht an' main 
We pit it ower oor veesitors wi' besom an' wi' stane. 

'Frens we hae wi' us the nicht," ye'll hear Dave Forgan cry ; 
The ringin' patreeotic speech, an' piper's skirl, forbye. 
Ou, aye, we'll hae the graund time, oor cares will run awa. 
Gin it disna thaw, Jock — gin it disna thaw. 



Itsel But They Maun Play 

The ice is keen upon the loch the noo. 

An' dochty chiels, wi' curlin' stanes an' besoms, 
Gang oot wi' frozen hands an' noses blue 

Tae play the sonsie game in twas an' threesomes. 
The weather is sae caud we dinna ken 

Hoo 'tis they contrive tae keep their ears on ; 
We think they'd like tae quit it noo an' then. 

But they maun play, accordin' tae MacPhearson. 



Twenty-seven 



Better start today than train for tomorrow and be outclassed. 



The Stern Chase 



Sometimes even Homer nodded ; 

Sometimes Shakespeare threw a shoe; 
Sometimes Aristotle plodded 

All in vain to get it through. 

Sometimes Pitt was flabbergasted ; 

Sometimes Sheridan was stumped ; 
Sometimes Morgan's plans are blasted ; 

Sometimes Rockefeller's bumped. 

Sometimes what is least expected 

Comes across in subtle way ; 
Sometimes, when we're not dejected, 

Shines a reassuring ray. 

With this dope to train your fancy. 
With these accidents to guide. 

Tell us, neighbor, if you can see 
When Detroit will hit the slide? 

Till it does, there's nothing doing — 
While the Tigers keep the track. 

We can't catch 'em by pursuing ; 
They must meet us coming back. 



Twenty-eight 



You can't pay off people of the Square Set with technicalities. 



"The Big Fellow" 



Grizzled, and gray, and fat, and slow, 

And sober reflected, John, 
You bring back all we care to know 

Of the grand old game that's gone. 

Straight from the heart you send it out, 
As straight from the shoulder once 

You sent the sleep-inducing clout 
To the unprotected sconce. 

No trimmer, you, of the oily kind, 

No weeder of weazened wheeze ; 
No present use you attempt to find 

For the parings of moldy cheese. 

You stand alone for the virile part 
Of the sport with the soulful punch, 

And you don't come back like a sodden tart, 
Warmed over again for lunch. 

You stand for the better past for fair; 

You can say, though you make them wince, 
That the game was better when you were there 

Than ever before — or since. 



" •to ^ 



Our One Best "Fury" Selection 

A woman scorned some fury is, perhaps — 
A wise fish said no greater hell enshrines ; 

But even great philosophers may lapse. 
And pick out wrong superlatives for signs. 

Now, if hell's top weight fury we'd select. 

We'd overlook the dame that has been tossed — 

We'd pass her up without the least respect. 

And pick the grafter who's been double-crossed. 



Twenty-nine 



A game that everybody is good at cannot be a hard ganie to play. 



Yes, Let's 



Let's to golf. 

The season's here, 

Air is keen and sky is clear ; 

The green's not playable as yet; 

It is soggy — yes, and wet. 

Let's be Sooners, rash and bold ; 

There's a chance of catching cold. 

I don't care, do you ? 

Kerchoo ! 

Let's to golf, the chills defying; 
To get back to it I'm dying. 
Now the tingle's in the blood — 
Gee, but I am feeling good ! 
How I long to drive that pill 
Over dale and over hill ! 
Deal the stroke with steam behind it- 
Drive it where I cannot find it ! 
Here's our chance — don't refuse it; 
Slice it, foozle it, or lose it. 
Start 'er off. 
Let's to golf! 

I've improved a lot, I know. 

While the greens were deep in snow. 

In the boreal congestion, 

I was training "by suggestion." 

Snugly sheltered from the storm, 

I have dreamt myself to form. 

I was nervous ; now I'm brave ; 

I can make that pill behave ; 

I can charm it like a siren 

With the wooden club or iron. 

I'm its master — nuttintoit — 

Verily, I am a beaut. 

I can cut a stroke or two 

From each hole, I'm telling you ! 

On our way. 

Blithe and gay. 

We may wind up with a cough. 

But we'll cure it at the "trough." 

Let's to golf ! 



Thirty 



When onfe is in doubt and out of trumps what would you advise? 



Bowling Ode 

Kunze and Kuenert, Gazzolo and Blake, 

Rosenthal, Rosenbaum, Brady and Ellison; 
Schuster and Schulte and Shotwell and Drake, 

Stephanapoulos, Spottorno and Cuneo; 
Torreyson, Turrell, Shapiro and Sharp, 

Cermak and Ptacek, Belatsky and Roonio 
(His mother's Italian, his father's a Harp;, 

Axelson, Axworthy, Axtell and Allerton; 
Engle and Parker and Pearson and Durk, 

Dives and Lazarus, Caston and CuUerton; 
McStivick, McGinnis, McGoorty, McGurk, 

Smith, Jones and Robinson, Fairbury, Ferguson; 
Templeton, Thompson and Titcomb and Tate, 

Bellingham, Washington, Wetmore and Burgison ; 
Masterson, Morrison, Holdon and Waite 



K »( »( 



We might rhapsodize till the Holsteins and Jerseys 
Return from the meadow when milking time's nigh ; 

When bowling inspires, we can pile on the verses, 
But this is as much as we think will get by. 



Thirty-one 



What word do they use for cheating when it is done in six figures. 



But he Wouldn't Stoop to That 

The gambler ducked his old gray knob, and tamed his heart of fire, 
"The dogs have got this rum old world — if 'taint so, I'm a liar." 
He said this while a look of woe ensmeared his wrinkled brow ; 
And added : "There is none, alas ! to deal the bank for now. 

"They run a few games here and there for panfish and the like, 
Who hardly know what playing is, but cadge and steal to pike ; 
But gambling ! — no, there's none of that, as in the good old days. 
With cards and dice they trim 'em now in more high-handed ways. 

"I met an old-time dealing guy — we called him Hungry Joe ; 
He'd slipped away from 'Frisco, owing me a bunch o' dough. 
I tapped him on the shoulder, and I called him by his name, 
And said: 'You look like aces up. Come, lead me to your game.' 

"He stuttered : 'You're mistaken,' as by me he tried to slip, 
But I brought him back a-smiling when my hand moved to my hip. 
He asked my pardon for the past — said, 'Troll along with me ; 
Forget about that throw-down, and I'll make it right — you'll see.' 

"He took me to his layout — 'Stocks and Bonds' was on the door. 
You talk about your come-on stuff ! I never saw before 
Such stacks of phony mining truck piled up like loaves of bread. 
Said he : 'This is the sucker's meat since lottery is dead.' 

"An old dame with the get-rich bug came shuffling through the door, 
And said she liked the last so well she thought she'd buy some more. 
She handed him a century ; he winked and bowed her out. 
Said he : 'Let's get this broken, and the half is yours, Old Scout.' 

"I said : 'You'd better keep it all. I'll try some other lay. 
Those crooked games are not for me, 'cause I'm not built that way.* 
The dogs have got this rum old world. If 'taint so, I'm a liar." 
Again he ducked his old gray knob, and tamed his heart of fire. 



Thirty-tivo 



YouVe not an optimist if you don't figure unplayed games as won. 



The Ticker's New Tale 



How soothing the drone of the ticker is now — 

Oh, dreamy, monotonous drone ! 
As restful and soft as the moo of a cow 

That's lately come into its own. 
No wild-eyed fanatics now circle and surge 

'Round the hole where it vomits the tape — 
We're not smashed on the ear by the cackle and dirge, 

As the figures are making escape. 

The ticker to-day tells a different tale — 

In sooth, it has nothing to say. 
Except the dry records of barter and sale 

Of millionaires making the hay. 
It comes not athwart with error and run, 

The momentous bingle and bunt. 
The changing of pitchers, the game lost and won. 

That brought all the bugs to the front. 

Gone all the romance from under that globe — 

That glass globe that covers the works — 
You can't find a fan around here with a probe. 

As the figures fall steady by jerks. 
Lonesome? Oh, yes, in a sort of a way, 

Like a fellow is lonesome without 
A bore that sticks 'round for the best of the day, 

And at last takes the hint and goes out. 



Thirty-three 



A poor way to inspire confidence is to start in with an excuse. 



Qualifying the Receptive Mood 

As long as he comes clean with it, 

As long as he's not mean with it, 
I'm not the least inclined to scoff at him who tells us how. 

As long as he's not rough with it, 

And doesn't run a bluff with it, 
I'm not a bit resentful, but as docile as a cow. 

As long as he's not hoaxing me, 

He'll get somewhere by coaxing me — 
I don't object to follow, but I kick at being driv ; 

I'll cut out all the vanities, 

The lapses and insanities, 
If he comes at me gently with his lesson how to live. 

If he knows what he's talking on, 

And knows the street he's walking on — 
If he isn't just reforming 'cause his mission is to chide ; 

If he has had a taste of it. 

If he but knows the waste of it, 
I'll be happy to receive him with these two arms open wide. 

If he's not puritanical — 

I mean by that, tyrannical — 
Impatient of the foibles that have never tempted him ; 

If then he doesn't arrogate 

There's no gait but the narrow gait, 
I'd just as soon accept his light as any other glim. 



Thirty-four 



It's not the invention that succeeds; it's the improvements on it. 



Free Speech a L'Crevisse 

Discharge our thoughts freely no longer they'll let us ; 

No longer we're given the right of free speech ; 
If we say what we're thinking, the sheriff will get us, 

And, likely as not, put us far out of reach. 

Raus mit the er' ' as long we have peddled, 
The crass accusations we've bandied about ; 

The courts in our joy have at last intermeddled, 
And slipped us the order for cutting it out. 

We have pelted the rotters what time it has pleased us, 
Nor stopped to consider the language we used ; 

Of some choice libel cracks in our time we have eased us — 
The right to continue has now been refused. 

We've called 'em all cheaters, cut-shifters and jobbers, 
Squeezers of nickels and combers of cush, 

Scalers of transoms and commonplace robbers, 
Without taking a comeback from one of the push. 

They seemed to regard this as no more than proper ; 

They seemed to accept it as part of the game ; 
Every fib we pulled off was a peach or a whopper — 

They'd never object— they were docile and tame. 

But now— holy smoke ! they won't stand for a toasting; 

If you call 'em pet names, they will go to the mat. 
A goggle-eyed beak has said nix on the roastmg. 

Good gracious! Now, what do you know about that? 



Thirty-five 



Brass band promises seldom last after the music has died away. 



The Seat on the Wagon 

If the friends you have made are the friends you have met 

With a song and the stein on the table, 
They're the friends you should hold without fear or regret, 

And stick to as long as you're able. 

They're the friends who will say, when you've turned down your 
glass, 

And Bacchus and Hebe have cheated : 
"More power to you. Bill ; now, don't be an ass, 

And play it again when you've beat it." 

That's the kind of a spiel that will make you sit tight. 

When your seat on the wagon you've chosen ; 
They're the boys who will nerve you to keep up the fight 

Till the rivers of brimstone are frozen. 

And there's no place you'll hear this but where you were wont 

To stand up and take it unflinching; 
It is there you will feel the full force of the Don't, 
When your pet resolution you're cinching. 

There the man with the apron, who served you so oft. 

Will tell you how well you are looking. 
And hail you with pride when you take something soft — 

You're top choice in that fellow's booking. 

*Tis the same with the fellows you meet at the rail — 

They never will kid nor deride you ; 
They will wistfully smile when you take Adam's ale, 

And wish they were up there beside you. 

We haven't much faith in these "Never Agains" 

Who shudder when beer steins beholding, 
And suddenly switch to assailing the "dens," 

And think they're advising, when scolding. 



Thirty-six 



In assuming a virtue first see that you look the part. 



The bovine that howls soon its offspring forgets 

(To twist it a bit in translation) ; 
The Brand from the Burning that jumps on the Wets 

Will fall off this side of his station. 

You can cut out the cup and still hold to the charm, 

No matter how others may think it ; 
If you're properly set, it will do you no harm — 

You can go where it is and not drink it. 

Hold the pals that you have, though their gait is unchanged, 
And don't swap the Reds for the Blue ones. 

You'll be lonesome indeed with the old ones estranged — 
It's a cinch you'll grow sick of the new ones. 






A Good Old Pal's Gone Out 

(To Charles F. Spalding. His Memory.) 

Let's lay aside the lighter thought 

And pause a little while ; 
Let's give a voice to feelings pent — 

Let tears usurp the smile. 

Let grief reign where the laughter was, 

And let us cease to doubt 
That friendship lives beyond the grave- 

A good old pal's gone out. 



Thirty-seven 



The best of us make mistakes but the worst of us persist in them. 



"Let Me Dream the Rest" — Pope 



When Hope runs riot, let's make it a good one. 
All set, gents ! 

Now, we should go right on from here, 

Nor look behind to see who's near. 

Onward, onward we should go. 

With giant stride and telling blow. 

Our pitchers are just getting right 

To hold their batteries to harm — there's naught to fear. 

Yes, we should go right on from here. 

Yes, we should go right on from here. 
And demonstrate the entire smear — 
The blooming layout — bally muss — 
Was organized to lose to us. 
We have 'em where we want 'em — yes, 
We have 'em where they're in distress ; 
We have the class — let's make that clear. 
Yes, we should go right on from here. 

Yes, we should go right on from here — 

Full speed ahead, no rocks a-near. 

We should not halt nor hesitate 

As toward the goal we navigate. 

Our paths converging in the fall 

To saw off seven games of ball — 

Cubs versus Sox. Smoke up ! More beer ! 

Yes, we should go right on from here. 



Thirty-eight 



The art of self defense: 100 yards in ten seconds. 



Jiu Jitzu 



Come all ye rubes and gather round and take another fling ; 

Bring all the change the baseball mags would have you save till 

spring. 
We have a game from old Japan, where every move's a thrill ; 
And say, old pal, we have the goods — jiu jitzu is all skill. 

Our honorable expert is a cousin of the moon ; 
It cost a mint to fetch him here — we're slipping you a boon. 
You can't afford to miss our show — you owe it to yourself. 
(They pull 'most any kind of bunk to get your hard-earned pelf.) 

You crowd in with a bunch of ginks and sprain your neck to see 

This wondrous mode of self-defense — but listen unto me: 

The Chink that scorched your collars, put your new shirts on 

the bum — 
You'll see him with his queue cut off and labeled "Prince Yum 

Yum." 

He'll run and yell and take a fall with some knight of the mat. 
(Our wrestling game itself, you know, is full of things like that.) 
So don't become excited — think you're seeing something great : 
This jitzu thing as a means of self-defense is a shine when the 

stick-up gent gets the drop on you in the wee sma' hours when 

you're oozing home with half a skate. 






Autumn Reflection 



Gowf should no be played in lang breeks. 

It's doonricht sacreleegious. 

The cutty yins air bad enow, but th' lang yins are an abomi- 
nation. 

Kilts, mon, are the only habit for a Gowfer. The skirl o' the 
skairts at the tap o' the drive maks the bonny pechter. Indeed, aye, 
Macphearson ! 



Thirty-nine 



Temperament is the highbrow word for ordinary pure cussedness. 



The Peripatetic Polyglotic Wheeze 

He told them a wheeze at a dinner, 

In a dialect brought from the South, 
And they rose in their chairs and applauded 

As the point of it fell from his mouth. 
It dealt with a coon and a chicken, 

With trimmings that went with the race, 
And all of the scenic investure 

That belonged nowhere else but "the Place." 

He told them a wheeze at a dinner, 

And the pet raconteurs of the night 
Were too much absorbed in absorbing, 

With a thought that they probably might 
Take it home to themselves and revamp it, 

And dress it some other way. 
And spring it again as a new one, 

In a company mellow and gay. 

Then he heard it again at a dinner — 

The point was the same, no mistake, 
But 'twas stript of the soft efflorescence 

Of the coon and the corn and the brake, 
And dressed up in lingo Teutonic, 

With the change of a name here and there, 
And it went just as well as the first time, 

And put the same dent in dull care. 

And he heard it once more at a dinner — 

This time neither German nor coon 
Was put to the front as the hero — 

It was told with a lilt and a croon 
That belongs all alone to the Irish, 

And the "moke" that was "Heinie" was "Mike" ; 
And they all took an oath when he cracked it 

That they'd never heard of the like. 



Forty 



Before cracking anything make sure of your terminal facilities. 



Then he heard it once more at a dinner, 

And the fellow who sprung it declared 
That it happened up there in Wisconsin — 

Some place where rough timber is squared. 
This one could not master the coon stuff, 

Dutch and Irish eluded his quest, 
So he put it away in Norwegian, 

And they fell for it just like the rest. 



•I •? I? 



The Baseball Situation 

Sing a song of dollar marks reaching to the skies ; 
When they talk of millions now it causes no surprise. 
Magnates on the inside, counting up their tin; 
Hustlers on the outside, honing to get in ; 
Stories of the big wads backing other leagues ; 
Darkly hinting treachery, treason and intrigues ; 
Guesses that are crazy, statements that mislead ; 
Just an ounce of sportsmanship to twenty tons of greed. 
Money ! Money ! Money ! till you cannot rest ; 
Reaching for the kale seed ; tell with all the rest. 



Forty-one 



The most one-sided person is the one that really has no choice. 

The Way to Get In Right 

(To Col. Bill Stanton, E' rst of Here) 

More blessed is he than the native son, 
The fellow that goes that way: 

The eastern toff, 

Who goes to scoff 
But will linger a while to pray. 
O the native son in his native state 
Is a proposition tough, 

But his heart will melt 

If you just unbelt 
With the right climatic stuff. 

And stronger still than the native son 
Is the natur'ilized native son. 

Who thinks the least 

Of that place back east, 
And roots like a son-of-a-gun 
For the climate, the grub, the flowers and fruits, 

And will tear your shirt 

If you dare advert 
To the quakes or the fogs or fleas. 

O the natur'lized son is the one best plug 
For the things they have out there — 

He throws new light 

On the spot that's bright 
And covers the spot that's bare ; 
He knows more things that are good to say 
Than the natives ever thought; 

And he heats his spiel 

With a convert's zeal 
When the boasting bug he's caught. 



Forty-tzvo 



You never heard of a carp getting away after it has been hooked. 



Golf Au Nature! 

(Something that arose in Prof. Le Gasoline at the sight of three 

bugs, all full grown, pasting the pill by the roadside 

in Ravinia with the thermometer at 90.) 

I do not ask for velvet greens, 

For bunkers high, and stately stretches; 

I do not care a hill o' beans 

For all the joy the real thing fetches. 

A vacant lot, a club or two, 

A ball to hit in vague direction, 
Midst scattered rocks and trees, a few, 

Just suits my golfing predilection. 

The nineteenth hole is just a step, 

The brew is cold and good and handy, 

You need not hint — the host is hep 
And leads you to it. Fine and dandy! 

Let others hike to formal fields 

And play it straight and conscientious; 

They'll never know what joy it yields. 
When links are crude and unpretentious. 

Me for the rude informal stuff, 

As when we played old cat in childhood ; 

Where putting greens are in the rough 
And "simple hazards" tangled wildwood. 



Forty-three 



HI fares the game that is governed by the box office. 



The Missing Ingredient 



Speed? Take a look. They have got it to burn, 

At fielding they've got 'em all done to a turn. 

There is nothing comes near them that they can not stop : 

They're in front of the bounder and under the pop. 

When they're out in the field you w^ill say, "There's a team ; 

The infield is bomb-proof, the outfield a dream " 

Butthehelof itistheyainthittin ! 

At pulling the double and squeezing the pinch 

And cutting off men at the bags it's a cinch; 

At serving injunctions on probable runs — 

Say, the cheese and the candy, the cake and the buns. 

When they're on the defensive they're up on their pins; 

They are there with their feet and their noodles and fins- 

Butthehelof itistheyainthittin ! 

The pitching staff? Say, can you equal it? Yes? 
Well, there's coming to you another bad guess. 
They have got all the speed and the curves to be had, 
The spitters and floats that put bats to the bad ; 
They're as stingy as blazes in passing out walks, 
And at fanning 'em you must give 'em the chalks — 

Butthehelofitistheyainthittin ! 



Forty-four 



It's a poor rule that only begets designs to get around it. 



Catching? You'll find them right there with the whip 
When daring opponent to second would slip; 
When a speed marvel dashes away from the base 
He is out just as plain as the nose on your face; 
When the peg's to the plate they are there with the mitt; 
For sliders and spike do they care ? Not a bit — 

Butthehelofitistheyainthittin ! 






The Mucking Third Person 

What to Tom is full of guile 

Dick thinks not reprehensible, 
And what to Dick's not worth the while 

To Tom is indispensable. 
They might agree to disagree 

On evils and the growth of them; 
If Harry did not hold that he 

Must regulate the both of them. 



Forty-five 



Crooked arguments depend for aid upon appeals to Ignorance. 



The Blaze of Glory Finish 



And they say that your finish, O Sport of Kings, 

The last Futurity, 
If your place is settled among the things, 

The things that Used to Be — 
Then let it be said 'twas a glorious one, 

With spirits still untamed; 
They were there to watch till your life was gone, 

They were there — and were not ashamed. 
They cheered you out as they cheered you in, 

As they cheered you on your way. 
With never a thought of the taint of sin, 

Or penalty to pay. 
The pulse still quickened to flying feet, 

The eye had a warmer glow. 
And they cheered with men they were proud to meet, 

In a game they were proud to know. 

They say that's your finish, O Sport of Kings, 

O game of the rich, red blood! 
Which gave its life to all sportive things 

By which clean men have stood. 
And, if it be, they will mourn with pride 

And with spirits still untamed; 
They will curse the fate that put you aside, 

They will curse and not be ashamed. 

That'll be about all for the Sport of Kings, 

That'll be about all, they say; 
The game has been chucked with the discarded things 

And the gee-gte has had its day. 
Reform has collected in full its claim. 

Collected and closed the deal ; 
It has demanded the life of the ancient game — 

It wins, and there is no appeal. 



Forty-six 



Submission to the inevitable means no funds to take an appeal. 



There is nothing left for the losing end 

But deny that the fight was fair, 
And shelter claim from a foreign friend 

And take its b'liefs elsewhere. 
For the world is wide, and the world is free, 

And places there are therein 
Where men can be what they wish to be 

And no one shall say they sin. 






The Active Principle of the Crab 

Shake not your gory locks and cry about reform's aggression, 
Wake up and purge your addled beans of any such obsession. 
Reform's a good thing in its way, and not at all obtrusive. 
And starting things is not its lay, when customs grow abusive. 
In fact, it never takes a hand till you yourselves grow restive. 
Until your own kind load your games with matters indigestive. 

'Tis only when the crooks fall out and generate the knocking 
That forces that uplift get next to what they think is shocking. 
Don't blame it on reform what time the coppers come and nail you, 
When, Bingo ! down the lid is clamped, and pulls do not avail you. 
Reformers trail and don't resort to supererogation, 
The Killjoy never intervenes without an invitation. 



Forty-seven 



Wounded pride often is an uglier customer than smirched honor. 



Time! 



On the casual meeting in a public place of those ancient gladi- 
ators, Ed. Corrigan and Charles S. Bush 

Grizzled and gray and with shoulders bent, 

Friends or foes, at the game behest ; 
The seams and scars that the struggle lent 

Seem smoothed away as you near your rest. 

What do you like to talk of best 

When you and you, with your rolls content, 

Held equal sway in the Middle West — 

Of the wreck you saw and did not prevent? 

What signifies what you have to say, 

Each to each as you chance to meet ? 
Do you spar again for each other's play, 

As you draw apart from the crowded street? 

Love or hate, or the sour or sweet, 

What's the motif that rules your speech? 

What is within while you clasp and greet? 
What is the feeling of each for each ? 



Forty-eight 



The next best thing to an alibi is a distribution of the blame. 



The Beautiful 'ome Life Halibi 

Hapropos of nothing in particular — if you chawnce of muff the 

connection 



I'll grant you that 'is methods were at times a trifle coarse; 
That he'd resort to poison if the game were 'orse and 'orse. 

'E was never stumped by conscience, 
Nor retarded by remorse, 

But 'e always was a hexcellent provider. 

With 'is hoptic on the main chawnce 

And 'is 'eart set over there 
Were the oof bird warbles sweetly 

And the brave deserve a share, 
'E would get the part 'e wanted — 

As to 'ow 'e wouldn't care — 
For 'e always was a hexcellent provider. 

'E was oily with 'is enemies, 'is friends 'e played for fools; 
'E took all sorts of liberties with hethics and with rules; 
The end 'e would put over always justified the tools — 
But 'e always was a hexcellent provider. 

But if he's simply riding us, 
Upbraiding us and chiding us, 

Because he thinks he was put here to storm, and 
rave, and shout ; 
If his own min' his measure is. 
If killing joy his pleasure is, 

I'll fight to get what he declares I better am without. 

'E never bashed 'is kiddies, to the missus 'e was kind ; 
Ts care was true and tender of the loving ties that bind. 
Wen 'e went forth from the 'ome nest 'e might leave 'is soul 
be'ind. 
But 'e always was a hexcellent provider. 



Forty-nine 



The rules that regulate sport are always founded upon fair play. 



Good By Tom— Hello Dick 



The bromide pipes with silly grin, 
Now that the grand old game's all in, 
What will you find to spiel about. 
Now that baseball is up the spout — 
How will you worry through? 

Now making answer unto him, 
This fellow with strabismic glim. 

Who looks but doesn't see — 
We chortle cheerily, Old Top, 
This circus doesn't have to stop. 

Nor pull up stakes and flee. 

When one obsession runs its course. 
And from its bugs will seek divorce 

And graver care resume, 
The heading at the top will stand. 
The "filling" is what comes to hand — 

We shan't give up the room. 

The given point you recognize 
Whereat your fleeting int'rest dies. 

Is not our semaphore; 
We hurry reckless by the switch 
Where baseball's lying in the ditch. 

As fits our daily chore. 

The game is dead ; long live the game ! 
When yours went out another came — 

No interregnum here. 
Although your frenzy may subside, 
The cell you filled is occupied 

By some one, never fear. 



Fifty 



The world advances more by sacrifice hits than by slugging. 



Put It Away With the Rest 

(On New Year's Day) 

There it goes, there it goes, 
With its sunshine and tears. 

Its triumphs, defeat, and its draws ; 
'Twas only a mark on the tablet of years — 

A straw in a bundle of straws. 

They come rather swift when the brightest are gone, 

And the dullest remain to be met; 
When the stretch has been reached and the finish is on, 

And the has-been outnumbers the yet. 

Slip it back in the pile — there's a lot of them there, 
The bad ones mixed up with the blest; 

It carried its joy, it delivered its care — 
Just let it lie there with the rest. 

No better nor worse than the others that went, 
They all bear the same kind of freight; 

It has taken the portion for which it was sent, 
And those that have left only wait. 

Only wait for their own to come rolling along. 
Which it will, to the same glad acclaim. 

For time take no note for the dirge or the song, 
But stolidly plays out the game. 

The one that was planted when yesterday closed 
Took its toll of the brightest and best. 

And those that are left are only exposed — 
So put it away with the rest. 



Fifty-one 



Neutrality is being ashamed of one side and afraid of the other. 



Peace 

Putting into verse the sentiments of Mr. Roosevelt in 
asking for more Dreadnaughts. 

"Let us have peace," is the song of the world; 

"Start nothing that you cannot finish." 
If all were imbued with that spirit divine, 

The causes of war should diminish. 
Just hope for the best and go fixed for the worst, 

That's the bulliest way to insure it ; 
For no one will start out to pick upon you 

If he knows you've the power to endure it. 

The most peaceable person we ever have met 
Was the man who talked softly but ever was set 
And figured on giving more than he would get; 

And could swing with the cross and the upper. 
This man never fought and he never was whipped, 
They took him on faith how he looked when he 

stripped. 
Your bones he would crunch when your flipper he 
gripped 

And smilingly asked you to supper, 

"Let us have peace." Let us clamor amain 

Or supplicate with all due meekness ; 
And the nation or man that is there with the 
punch 

Will accept our confession of weakness. 
Peace is the thing that takes care of itself. 

It's the dope when there's nothing to settle — 
Peace is the thing to palaver about 

When you don't feel quite sure of your fettle. 



Fifty-two 



And so is he thrice armed who can duck out of it before it starts. 



The most peaceable dog is the dog that is there 

With the buckle and clinch when he's caught unaware, 

And who "never starts not'n" that's not on the square, 

And licks his own wounds when it's over. 
He goes on his way, never picking a scrap ; 
His bark is of peace, but the scars on his map 
Are nothing compared to what happened the chap 
Who thought he could hand it to Rover. 






Addie Joss 



He pitched good ball — and what he was beside 

He did not say ; but showed in gentle acts ; 
No braggart he, nor puffed with empty pride — 

A model for his kind in simple facts. 
Just what he was, he was, nor ever tried 

With vain acclaim to be what he was not ; 
No strength he bragged, nor weakness he denied ; 

The best he had to give was what you got. 
An honest tribute this, from one and all ; 

He pitched good ball. 



Fifty-three 



He who boasts his honesty may be honest, but button your coat. 



Loot Uptodatified 



And then again, when Homer smote 

His blooming lyre and cut his capers, 
Some of the clever things he wrote 

Suggested were by other papers. 
Far be it from that we'd declare 

That this here Homer up and stole it — 
A "point" he would grab here and there, 

Then in Homeric language dole it. 

A proud old pot this Homer was, 

A patronizing old gazimbo ; 
His life devoted to the cause 

Of rescuing good things from limbo. 
Whene'er he saw a basic thought 

Whose circulation might be stinted, 
He'd say, "The point of this I've caught; 

My duty is to see it printed. 

' 'Twould be a shame to let it lie 

Where low-brow mutts are sure to muff it, 
Where my constits will pass it by 

Or else deliberately slough it. 
As purveyor of happy thinks, 

The higher-taste consumers need me ; 
I'm honoring those lesser ginks 

In that I suffer them to feed me." 



^ ^ •S 



Le Tag 

When Homer blew this mundane sphere, 
He didn't take with him the habit; 

His blooming motto still is here : 
"If you can use it, go and grab it!" 



Fifty-four 



Gameness may be shown by front runners as well as trailers. 



Taking Care of Horatius 

Macaulay doesn't mention, now, what happened after that — 
How Horatius was rewarded for the way that he stood pat 
And, single-handed, held the bridge until the day was saved, 
Then, with his harness on his back, the slime of Tiber braved. 

Mac leaves you to conjecture what Horatius got for his — 
How he was taken care of after all the boom and sizz; 
And you, of course, suppose that he was properly set up. 
With a grateful state providing for his every bite and sup. 

Oh, lovely faith in gratitude ! Perhaps 'twere best you'd think 
That he had no cause to worry and was always in the pink ; 
That the balance of his tenure was just one long refrain; 
That into his existence there ne'er fell a drop of rain. 

But nix upon the sentiment. 'Twas not a bit like so. 

("Nix" is used advisedly — in Latin it means "snow.") 

They shouted for his bravery, they shouted loud and large, 

But they passed the frosty pickles when he came to be a charge. 

When squarely it was put to them that some one should provide. 
They forgot about the bridge thing, and your hero brushed aside. 
(They did arrange a "benefit" for him at long and last, 
But he only got the clankin's when the tinplate hat was passed.) 

Full of years and full of honors, but, alas ! of nothing more, 
Horatius had to hustle to eke out his scanty store. 
With a courage still unconquered, with a heart for any chance, 
He betook himself to vaudeville, just the same as Captain Anse. 
(Two syllables. Cap, if you're going to recite this.) 



Fifty-five 



Cut out something and help some who have to cut out everything. 



Be a Goodfellow 

(Christmas 1910) 

Be a good fellow ; there are many ways, 

But the easiest way is the best. 
Don't answer the call of the hip, hip, hoorays, 

But the call that gets under the vest. 
With your face in the mirror, your foot on the rail, 
And the song ringing clear till the morning is pale, 
Can you pause and reflect that you're having a time 
That is rippingly great, if not almost sublime ? 

To be a good fellow is nothing like that ; 

You are cheating yourself if you think 
That happiness comes with the toast and the song 

And the wallow in victuals and drink. 
Not chiding the bottle, the bird and the Doll — 
In their time and their place their praise I'll extol ; 
But how can you blow it in riot and rout. 
With frayed, empty stockings all hanging about? 

Be a good fellow, if revel you must ; 

But set a small portion apart 
To buy trinkets and goodies for poverty's kids, 

Who've been given the worst of the start. 
It sets yourself right when you know you have done 
Something to share just a part of your fun 
With those who have nothing to do nothing with — 
Show them that Santa Claus isn't a myth ! 

As much as you do for the least of these kids, 

The same will redound unto you ; 
You'll enjoy more the blessings that come to your own, 

When you feel you have scattered a few. 



Fifty-six 



A fellow can get used to getting along without what he can't get. 



There "With the Thanks 

(Thanksgiving Day 1909) 

I am thankful for the things I've missed, if not for what I've made; 

I am thankful that it hasn't been my lot 
To garner of the substances and be constantly afraid 

That I'm going to be nicked for what I've got. 

I am thankful that what little that has come to me is mine — 

That I didn't snatch as much as I could get ; 
That I've kept in subjugation all the instincts of the swine, 

And didn't hog it all when I was let. 

I am thankful that for envy I am not a shining mark ; 

That no one shoots envenomed shafts at me ; 
That I do not look so toothsome and so tempting to the shark, 

And that that school of fish just lets me be. 

I am thankful I am living just the way I want to live, 

And that no one feels disposed to say me nay ; 
That no one need pursue me with the gatling or the chiv 

For trespassing on some one's right of way. 

I am thankful that I'm feeling that the w^orld is being run 

In just about the way I should suggest ; 
That I've not the slightest reason to find fault with what's been done, 

And that everything is shaping for the best. 



Fifty-seven 



Evil must mean somebody's fun or it isn't worth suppressing. ^ 



Unregenerate 



Being a defiant chirp from a veteran (seeming inveterate) "horse 
reporter" who haply, you know 

Forget it ? Not yet. 
How could I forget ? 
Why should I forget if I could? 
I am not ashamed of the game I claimed, 

And the love of it's in the blood. 
I don't see why I should heave a sigh 

Or regret that I wasted time 
To store my head with a game that's dead, 
Oh, sorrier still, a crime. 

A crime ? No ! no ! 
I shall not say so. 
In the code that I take for mine, 
A blessing — yes, I will say no less, 

Though you say I am out of line, 
I have changed my ways and I've switched my praise 

And toil to a field that's new. 
And I've humbly bent, with a good intent, 
To do what is best to do. 

I have broken the tools 
That were made for fools, 
As you — but not I — would say. 
I have shaped new ends and I've made new friends, 

And the old ones I've put away ; 
I give my meed of applause for speed — 

For speed in the legs of men, 
And I nurse my hope for the men who cope 
As cheerfully now as then. 



Fifty-eight 



The best antidote for taking chances is a study of percentages. 



But my heart won't sway in the old, old way, 
Nor spring with the old-time thrill, 

As it did back there when my game was fair — 
The game they were pleased to kill. 



Forget it? Not yet. 

How could I forget? 
Why should I forget if I could ? 
I am not ashamed of the game I claimed, 
And the love of it's in the blood. 






A Line on Will's Form 

A whale with a wallop is Will ; 
He surely is stuck on the stick. 

At lining a lob 

He is on to his job. 
(Right here you can lay it on thick.) 

He can bingle and bungle a bit. 

He'll score while you're throwing a fit ; 

He has brains in his skull ; 

When the bases are full, 
He is Johnny-come-home with a hit. 

His natural bent is the bunt ; 

He is there with the sacrifice stunt. 

When a run's to be had. 

And the chances look bad, 
Just whistle — he'll come to the front. 

In the field? Well, just show him the place! 
At any position — an ace ! 

All spots look alike 

To this frolicsome tyke — 
That's as plain as the nose on your face. 



Fifty-nine 



Do not complain if you are accepted at your own discount. 



In the outer works ? Pshaw ! Simply great ! 
At fielding you can't find his mate. 

Let 'em come hard or soft, 

He can spear 'em aloft 
And deliver the goods at the plate. 

Then again, he's no mutt with the mitt ; 
At stabbing the wild 'uns he's It. 

He's no slob on the slab — 

You can send for a cab 
When he deals you the genuine spit. 

First base ? His elongated suit ! 
At second he's surely a beaut ; 

At third he's a bird, 

And at shortstop — my word ! 
He can give Tinker something to boot. 

He'll give your right shoulder a wrench 
If you try his inshooters to quench. 
You are up in the air 
With this rip-snorting bear — 
But he plays all his games on the bench. 



Made Over Maxims 



Hell hath no fury like a discharged caddy. 

Never let your left hand know what your right hand doeth, 
unless you have declared it in. 

Cast your bread upon the waters and it will return to you. This 
applies to the waters of Salt Lake, where there are no fish to beat 
you to it. 

Your flowing tide of easy money is ever offset by the undertow. 

The blatant fan usually mixes his business cards with his rooting. 

It is easier to convince a loser than it is to square his friends. 



^ 



Sixty 



Reasoning further a dash of cowardice is essential to discretion. 



Even Unto the Third Generation 



'1 beg your pardon, grandpa, dear," said Peter, five years old ; 

'I hope you will not call me fresh if so I make bold — 
If I ask you to peel your lamps and shed a little light 
Upon some propositions deep, the which perplex me quite." 

'Oh, not at all, my little man," exclaimed the pappy guy ; 

'That's just the thing I'm living for — when ready, let 'er fly !" 

'Now, what is Weston walking for?" asked Peter, to begin. 
'On that," quoth gramp,"ril stand a frisk, my precious Peterkin. 
I don't know why in ballyel he chooses for to roam, 
Unless he has no kids like you to keep him close to home. 
And then again, it may be that, as I've heard people state. 
If he stood still upon the ground, his corns would germinate." 

'As clear as mud !" cried Peterkin; "I should have thought of that. 
But still if I know why he walks I'll eat my blasted hat. 
However, let that matter drop — another question vexed : 
I don't know why reform waves are — you'll kindly put me next. 
I know when anything we like just gets to going some, 
A Wave comes swooping over it and puts it on the bum." 

*Ah, yes, my little man, that's it," said grandad with a sigh ; 

'I'm jerry as to what they are, but cannot tell you why. 

When something looks right good to most, and they go in for it, 

Ill-favored blokes who like it not proceed to throw a fit. 

The handsomer the matter is, the harder is the bump ; 

The nearer to the people's heart, the nearer to the dump. 

'But there, now," the old codger said, "the sandman's coming now. 
It's time for little boys like us to mosey to the mow. 
He sleeps." In sooth, it was no lie — the little fellow slept. 
Old grandpop took him tenderly and to the hay they crept, 
And there he slumbered while his dreams on downy pinions 

soared — 
Till some reforming angel came and told him that he snored. 



Sixty-otie 



Correct your own gait before trying to put hobbles on others. 

More Work for the Killjoy 

(Dedicated to Col. Le Roy Steward) 

We cannot do the things we did, 

Nor thought that we were doing wrong, 
Ere bloodless churls put on the lid 
And put fun in that don't belong. 
But, lo ! there comes a smear of salve : 
We're told a few things we may have — 
The ban is lifted, Steward states. 
From marbles and from roller skates. 

Our freedom's coming back in dribs ; 

A ray of light through darkness sweeps ; 
We won't be pinched for playing mibs, 

E'en though it be we play for keeps. 
We may play mibs, and to our heels 
Make fast at will the flying wheels. 
No penalties thereto attach, 
Nor sojourn in the booby hatch. 

But softly ! Won't some mucksters kick, 
And crab the loosing of the chain? 

Won't Killjoy come on double quick 
And make them take it back again ? 

The ever thusness of the thing 

Makes us saddest while we sing; 

We'll hear that rank corruption waits 

On marbles and on roller skates. 

L. Envoi 

They do not like the games we play. 
They don't know why — it's just their way. 
They're small, but they have all to say — 
They do not like the games we play. 



Sixty-two 



The early robin is tabbed and hailed as a sucker among its kind. 



Center Fieldin' Ain't no Puddin' 

Just a little thing inscribed by Prof. Le Gasoline to Mattie 
Mclntyre and Artie Hofman 

Tell us not in bromide numbers, 

Center field is such a cinch — 
That the bloke who plays it slumbers, 

Seldom waking in a pinch. 

Out of center there's no stalling, 

There's no loafing on the beat ; 
Out in center balls are failing, 

Breaking up this snug retreat. 

Center fielders must be speedy, 

Argus-eyed ; ubiquitous ; 
With a paw that's ever greedy. 

And a wing — take that from us. 

When the pastiming commences, 

We get busy right away. 
Picking home runs oif the fences. 

Horning into every play. 

They say we get paid for hitting. 

Now, that steer must be amiss ; 
But, if true, the question's fitting: 

Whoinel gets paid for this ? 



Sixty-three 



The wisdom of the guess depends largely upon subsequent events. . 



Where Mexico Is 



(When a valued member of the White Sox was informed that 

President Comiskey had decided to take the world 

beaters to Mexico for spring practice, 

he asked, "Where is this Mexico?") 

It's where the condor spreads its sails, 

The hot tamale rears its crest ; 
The banderillo spares the quails 

And senoritas do the rest. 

It's where the una peso talks 

The language of the four-bit piece ; 

Where Spanish monte proudly walks 
And does not care for the police. 

It's where the caballeros cab, 

And matadors go to the mat ; 
Where poor el toro takes the jab. 

And el sombrero is a hat. 

It's where the intercostal chiv, 

Deft wielded, has the best of it ; 
It's where the greaserinos live. 

(You're jerry to the rest of it.) 

It's where they call a jay a hay, 

A sucker a gazzario ; 
It's where they have "The Feet of Clay" 

Skinned down to the scenario. 

It's where mescal usurps the place 

Of seltzer and the peggio ; 
Where Seiior Diaz holds the ace, 

And Pedro pulls your leggio. 

How far is Mexico from here ? 

Quite recently we measured it. 
We got a folder once from there, 

And jealously we've treasured it. 



Sixty-four 



There are two sides to all arguments but only one is interesting. 



You blow El Paso in the night, 
And crawl into your upper shelf, 

And at first blush of morning light 
Instinctively you search yourself. 

And if you find a peso, Mike, 
'Twas 'cause the peon wasn't on. 

San Francisco's quite a hike, 
But Mexico's t'ell and gone. 



t^ H *(, 



Do You Know the Game? 



They quarrel and the lie is passed. 
(The truth is coming out at last.) 
A crooked deck, a rotten deal, 
An accusation and a squeal. 

On each bestowed his proper name — 
Each mucking spoiler of the game. 
The whispered scandal turns to shout. 
(Ah, yes, the truth is coming out!) 

But softly, now — here some one comes, 
And stills the tumult of the drums 
By smearing on some salve like this : 
"We carry this too far, I wis. 

Forget this petty strife, I beg — 
We'll kill the goose that lays the egg." 
That hint of lucre gives them pause. 
They sheathe the ax, they close their jaws. 

With penitence that is skin-deep, 
The hypocrites embrace and weep ; 
Then formulate a plan to skin. 
One touch of coin has made them kin. 



Sixty-five 



The reputation of being unlucky is the surest patent of failure. 



A Temperance Lecture 

You talk of fightin' Bilson at twelve-stun-six hat noon ! 

My word ! You precious sot, I 'ave to lawf. 
You bloomin', blear-eyed bloater ! You booze-consumin' 'ound ! 

You couldn't stand before 'is photygrawf. 

If you'll honly blow the tipple hand reduce yourself to shipe — 

Well, yes, you might mike good, but not until 
You change habout your 'abits hand lead a decent loif — 

Cawn't you see wot hit his doin' to you, Bill ? 

You stand habout and gargle till the lawst man goes to sleep, 

And you scold habout the fellows you can lick ; 
Wen you're pickled good and proper, hand your knees begin to 
shike, 

You'll show 'em 'ow you used to do the trick. 

You'll show 'em 'ow you put awy the Chicken with a punch — 

It's a ghawstly himitation of a mill — 
Wen you try to swing the right 'un you kerflummix in a 'eap — 

Cawn't you see wot hit his doin' to you, Bill ? 

You used to be ha good 'un, not so very long ago. 

Hand you 'eld your hown through good and bad repute ; 

You were shifty hon your 'ind legs hand you 'ad the nawsty punch, 
Hand could tike ha bit o' gruelin' to boot. 

But you swallowed in the gripe juice that sputters in your fice; 

Now, so 'elp me, you cawn't get your bloomin' fill 
Of 'ighballs, pegs hand cocktails, hand common beer and ile — 

Cawn't you see wot hit his doin' to you. Bill? 



Sixty-six 



'played confidence. 



lav/ful stuff; 
J yet — 
With a month or so hot water hand some 'ealthy hexercise 
You'd be the sime hold William — that's a bet ! ' 

Just cut out the deadly spirits hand teetotal hit a w'ile, 
Hand show you're not ha 'opeless walking still ; 

Tike the puffs from 'neath your peepers, let the good blood 
circulite — 
Cawn't you see wot hit his doin' to you, Bill ? 



«!»(«( 



A La Tit Bits 

They tell a capital story about Sir T— d S— s in his relations with 
H— y S— h, about a bit of an affair which really is of no conse- 
quence. It really was a mere matter of twenty sovereigns which 

Sir T had overlooked. H approached Sir T [who, by 

the way, had cut him deeply at Lady G.'s affair], just after ' Sir 

T had dmed heavily. [But that's another story ; Kipling chap 

xxii. p. 145.] 

Sir T quite forgot himself, and he turned in and gave 

H a most lovely thrashing. 

When they had rescued him from the flowerpots, somebody 

asked him [H ], how he had so far forgot himself as to 

approach him [Sir T ] on a matter of business when he [Sir 

T ] had just dined. 

And H up and answered : "How the bloody did I know 

he was loaded ?" [ Law f ten] 



Sixty-seven 



The most effective means of winning is to see the referee firsL 



The Gloat and the Knock 



Bravo! Owen Moran — with the haccent hon the Mo — 
They'll not be so bloomin' cocky since of Neil you made a show ; 
They thought they 'ad hit hon hus, hand we thought about the sime, 
Wen you hups hand mikes hit pline to them we ain't forgot the 
gime. 

Gaw's Strewth! 

There's a hifty satisfaction in the wy you brought it 'ome; 

'Ow you bouched your precious mauleys from 'is bread-basket hand 

dome; 
'Ow you closed 'is bloomin' peepers hand cracked 'is bloomin' jaw, 
Hand 'ow to stop the carnage they 'ad recourse to law. 
My word ! 

Hit's many dys, Owen Moran — with the haccent has before — 
Since we sent a bally champion to that blawsted Yankee shore. 
They kidded with hour middleweights, they sloshed hour 'eavies, too. 
Till, bli'me ! we were hin despair hof hever comin' through. 
Fawncy ! 






L' envoi, i. e., the Knock 

"Och, yis," spake up McManus, "Owen Moran done the thrick ; 
But whin ye sarch his pedigree, ye'll foind that he's a Mick. 
You wouldn't have a look-in if you sint a Cockney here, 
For yez haven't got a fighter that can lick a glass of beer. 
Be jabers !" 



Sixty-eight 



>ounds of defense. 



ntosh 



(Wot price the Australian rights?) 

'Strordnary fellow is TTgh Mcintosh, 
Careless of distance and likewise of splosh • 
Opping abaht from this place to that, 
Looking for coves as is ripe for a spat ; 
Cheerful and feeling exceedingly fit, 
Doesn't mind travel a least little bit- 
Wen 'e's located a man 'e may want, 
Sydney to London is only a jaunt ; ' 
Picks aht the match as appeals to 'is taste 
hixes It up with astonishing 'aste; 
All signed and sealed in the\pace of a day • 
Cops the next ship and is up and away ; 
Lands in New York and is at it again ; 
Sees all 'e wants and then 'ops oifa train ; 
New York to Chicago is only a step— 

An exercise canter, a breather, a prep, 

Fitting him aht for a journev aht West, 

To sign up some fighter of w om 'e's in quest ■ 

Frisco. Seattle, Vancouver and all— 

With 'op, skip and jump, 'e'll on each make a call 

Sending aht columns of newspaper spoof, 

And making a lavish display of 'is 'oof ; 

Back to Chicago before 'e is missed. 

Making a spiel with 'is coin in 'is fist ; 

Putting it up to them : 
''Say yes or no — 

Fm booked at the station and ready to blow. 

If you change your mind in a fortnight or less, 

Mcintosh, London, my cable address." 

'Ops in a taxi and catches a train — 

Ere New York 'as missed 'im it's got 'im again. 

Busy again in impetuous style ; 

Gets enough Bradway to last for a w'ile ; 

Ops on a steamer as it's pulling aht ; 

Then back in London 'e's stepping abaht ; 

Tells British promoters just wot they should do 
And ears them cry, "Bravo ! we'll leave that to you" • 

back this way again, but this time passing through—' 

tor Sydney 'e's booked on some bally "Maru " ' 



Sixty-nine 



Who goes prepared Is not found wanting when the pinch comes. 



From Melbourne, Aus., to Charing- Cross, 

Were English speech is spoke, 
There's not a toff w'ose 'at's not off 

To this globe-girdling bloke. 
From Boston, Mass., to Alcatraz, 

Or to Tacoma, Wash., 
There's not a blooming sporting gent 

As dawn't know Mcintosh. 



f^ K K 



The Cruise 



(Written on HEK'S last New Year's Day) 

Ready, about, and we're off again, 

On another leg of this blind-lead race, 
To finish no one knows where or when — 

Nor cares o'ermuch in the present case. 
No backward glance at the might-have-been. 

Nor vain regrets, nor haunting fear 
That the course we lay is beyond our ken — 

We're squared away for another year. 

We do not know what is dead ahead 

(And 'tis best for us that we do not know), 
Or if we are leading or being led. 

Or good or ill in the winds that blow. 
Perhaps in another way we'd go 

If we shaped our course with a vision clear ; 
'Tis a sporting chance — and we'd have it so — 

We're squared away for another year. 

L'ENVOI 

All snug and taut as we come about, 
And a little bit of the course is clear ; 

While the glim holds out we will have no doubt — 
We're squared away for another year, 

»» »» «( 

Every once in a while Nature puts over something to show us 
human beings what a small figure we cut, after all. 

Seventy 



i 



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